


Old and Rusty

by knoflook



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Gen, Immovable object meets an unstoppable force and finds himself slowly giving way, Progress Is Made, non-graphic mentions of passive suicidal thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-13
Updated: 2017-03-13
Packaged: 2018-10-04 07:52:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,106
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10271837
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/knoflook/pseuds/knoflook
Summary: Gilbert is struggling to keep his head above water, and Ludwig doesn't know how to give help to a man who's never asked him for it.





	

**Author's Note:**

> This is the first fic I've actually finished in 3 years. It's completely un-beta'd, rusty in its own right, and self indulgent as fuck, but I'll be damned if I'm not proud of it.

A nightmare was the worst kind of battle.

To start: a nightmare took place in an otherwise unreachable state, one where anything imaginable was possible. Where the dreamer was once a man, he would be a mouse, a shadow, he could be a glass in a hand as it’s thrown to the ground. None of the laws that govern the waking world, physical, legal, or otherwise applied here. His best friends would spit him down, his most malevolent foe would seek intimacy.

The field was always, always crooked. 

In nightmares, all of a man’s deepest fears, deepest secrets, the things that clawed his throat, the things that hurt him most—none of them could be hidden. The field was crooked. The field wasn’t just within the home turf, the field was home and the threat came from inside. Nightmares were like zombie movies, where all of the people he cares for most were suddenly and thoroughly replaced with something cruel and uninhabited. 

 

Gilbert Beilschmidt hated zombie movies.

 

Gilbert Beilschmidt hated nightmares.

 

For a long time, sleep wasn’t a thing he did frequently. Sure, nationpeople could sleep, if they wanted. There was nothing stopping them, and most of them did sleep—but Gilbert was never a fan. There were times—times when he was close with others, when it was alright. He could sleep without having to worry about what would be happening while he was unconscious. It wasn’t blissful or anything, but there was peace. There was calm. There was...trust.

 

There were times when he’d  _ had _ to sleep, though. Abusing his nature as a personification of Prussia to slip away from rest could only work if he was at his strongest, if he could rely fully on his  _ inhuman _ abilities to keep the  _ human _ weakness at bay. Similarly for hunger, for exercise, sometimes. He prefered to eat. He prefered to stretch his aching  muscles.

 

He was not as strong as he used to be, when he was at his largest, at his strongest, when he had a younger brother clinging to the fabric of  his coat. He went to the gym frequently—more than he ever had. He ran daily, a few kilometers each time. Even still, he could feel his body weakening, slowly, unnoticeable to anyone but himself. He was still not the thinnest he’s ever been, but now he was all whipcord muscle and needlepoint fingers. He could feel the weakness in himself and it was disgusting—but this was just how he happened to be now.

 

He needed to sleep, again. 

Ludwig was the one who noticed the bruises under his eyes, actually. Gilbert didn’t spend a lot of time in front of mirrors, or looking at his own face in general, certainly not the eyes.

“Are you—” Ludwig had began, in that halting way he did when he was worried, when he was confused, the same tone of voice he’d used when he was practically a kid. It threw him back into memories of post-battle conversations over bloodied bandages. It threw him back to blinding morning light and Ludwig’s small, frightened face, “—okay?” Then, another pause, longer than the first. Gilbert had been preparing himself, and he studiously wiped the stovetop with the rag until it  _ glistened _ under that terrible fluorescent light. “Have you been sleeping?”

 

He used the spray-bottle on the shining metal backboard over the stove. Modern day kinda sucked, yeah, but at least the cleaning supplies were baller. “Of course,” he lied. Ludwig hovered like a mother hen, and Gilbert didn’t even waste a glance on his clucking, scratching a spot of scudge with the nail of his thumb.

“You have?” Gilbert could hear the raised eyebrows in his voice. Maybe, at this point, actually looking at each other was unnecessary. It sure would’ve prevented this conversation, which Gilbert desperately wanted out of.

“Absolutely.” Except that the internet had an unending supply of illegally and legally uploaded books and articles for him to read, and he’d never run out of something to keep him up if he needed it.

“Your eyes, then?”

 

“I’m fine, West.” This was the cousin of the commander voice. This was the “thi conversation is over, I know what I’m doing, leave this to me” voice. Ludwig made a low, deep, skeptical hum in the back of his throat that, centuries ago, would’ve been cause for Gilbert to snap at him. Instead, he just ran his rag over the same, shiny spot on the backsplash. 

Times had changed. Ludwig didn’t need a parent anymore—not really. He certainly didn’t need a drill master or a big brother who demanded trust and obedience, and yet still it stung him to allow Ludwig—to even for a moment—stick his nose somewhere it had no business being.

Point of fact: Gilbert Beilschmidt was not fine.

Point of fact: Ludwig could do nothing about it, and so, as far as Ludwig needed to concern himself, Gilbert was fine. Gilbert liked to consider himself, even in the modern age, a creature of practicality, and he wouldn’t have his brother shitting himself over some unhelpable trouble, and this was a cause as doomed as they came.

He was an old, used sword strapped to the hip of some young, bright-faced movie actor. It was an unfair comparison, of course, and more than a little mean, but he was used to the blur and confusion and tactics of the old world—and like this? Like this he was practically useless. Bound into his scabbard with one of those nasty little plastic ties that kept watches and toys in their cardboard boxes.

West had been a child when Gilbert—Prussia, had been at his height, of course he wouldn’t get it.

 

\---

 

Before battle, he used to clean his guns, his swords, he used to make sure that all his weapons were in the best possible order they could be. He used to stretch and train and practice, so that he could be in the best order he could be. Before battle, Gilbert would optimize his conditions as much as time allowed, as everyone should’ve. 

Now, at one in the morning, bent, bleary-eyed, over a laptop set to a scientific article about sleep, he was trying to apply the same tactics to a battle he’d been running from for months.

“REM rebound,” it said, “is the mind trying to catch the body up on the most important, deepest period of sleep within the sleep cycle—coincidentally, the part where you dream.” Hunched like a gargoyle over his laptop, his fingers flickered over the keyboard as he checked out the terminology of the article, trying to make sure he wasn’t being made a fool. Lights stared in at him from the window, but the hall was dark, the room was dark. Ludwig, who’d retired around ten, was sleeping silently in his own room. Gilbert’s door was shut, for the privacy, for the shame.

Another article recommended he try “lucid” dreaming. It posited that the cinema of his mind wasn’t simply something he just had to endure, but that, through practice and training, he could control it. This was an idea which appealed to Gilbert immensely, although, as always, he was skeptical of this internet article’s promise.

Studies backed it up, apparently.

First person accounts, for all they were worth.

 

Cautiously, Gilbert allowed his fingers to close around the hilt. 

 

\---

 

In theory it was simple.

In practice he found himself standing in a field of dying grass, a massive, black monolith behind him. The moment he’d slipped into sleep escaped him, leaving a blurry, quick dash between Gilbert’s personal anxiety theatre and the real world.

A thought nipped at him. He was supposed to do something—he was supposed to be pinching, pinching something. Something to do with breathing.

A wolf nipped at him.

He was in the clothes he’d worn as a boy—as a knight, as a fledgeling group, his sword was heavy in his small, gloved hand and panic seized him and shook him by the shoulders. He struck out with his arm and the extension of it, beating the creature around the head as it lunged at him—he was so old, already, but he was smaller than he should’ve been, and a mimicry of a boy was nothing to a wolf.

The heads split as the edge of the sword struck them, and the wolf was less of a wolf than the idea of one—heads wheeling and teeth snapping like traps, slick, wet cracks of the beast’s jaws. 

All other thought was abandoned for this moment of unrestrained panic, and his solitude was not a fact but a feeling, a truth—if he was killed out here, he’d come back with the wolf still over him. There was nobody in this dying-field but himself and the grass and the wolf and if he couldn’t get away he’d provide a thousand meals for this wicked creature.

 

\---

 

“I miss the weight of a good, sturdy cloak.” Gilbert and Ludwig had been running their daily kilometers, side by side. Ludwig set the pace, but when he started to falter, Gilbert would take over. It was as much a practice of companionship as it was a competition.

 

“You miss a lot of things,” Ludwig said, stretching. They’d reached the midway point of their run, and so they’d wait a few minutes here before starting again. “A cloak wouldn’t be good for running in this weather—the open bottom would just suck in the draft. You’re better off with that jacket.”

Gilbert made a sharp, dismissive noise, high up in his throat. “I ran in a cloak once, and I’d do it again.” This was a joke. It was funnier because it was true, and Ludwig—raised on a steady and questionably healthy diet of Gilbert’s crooked humor—allowed a decisive snort.

“I wouldn’t want it for running,” he amended, “just the general cold. Going out for something less active, or just to wear around the house.”

“People would look at you strangely if you walked around in a cloak, Gilbert,” Ludwig said, practical to the point of condescension—of course they would. Gilbert was not an idiot.

He laughed, sharp and high and derisive. “They look anyway! Jesus, West, don’t worry about it. It was only a passing fancy. I just miss the weight of it is all, modern coats are very nice, and very warm, but they’re so light.”  
Ludwig gave him a very strange look, eyebrows pinched together, low down over his eyes. Gilbert’s gut writhed under the (undeserved, he felt) scrutiny and he squared his shoulders against it.

“You’re saying that you don’t like modern coats because they’re _lighter?_ They’re easier to run in—what’s wrong with them?”  
“There’s nothing wrong with them.”  
“Then what do you miss about cloaks?”  
“They just had a nice weight is all. I miss it. Relax, West, I don’t really want a cloak, I know they’re less...practical,” Gilbert conceded. There was a pause between them, and then Ludwig laughed (low and light and genuine). Gilbert felt himself mirroring with a small smile of his own, anticipating the joke. “What is it?”

“Nothing, nothing,” Ludwig said, “you just—shit, you  _ are _ getting older aren’t you?”

Gilbert’s smile iced over.

\---

  
Supposedly, once he started sleeping regularly, his dreams would no longer be so terrible, so vivid and so frequent. This was difficult to achieve, however, because his nightmares thrust him awake long before the sun rose, and kept him so flooded with anxiety that he couldn’t return to sleep until the sun _had_ risen, and by then it was time for his run with Ludwig.

Really, despite all the work he was doing to tamp down whatever terrible human reaction his body was having to nights spent  _ studying _ and  _ working _ and being  _ productive,  _ he found himself more tired than ever.

 

He ran through a procession of dreams, drunkenly stumbling through as faces grew blurrier and the events grew darker. He tried to pinch his nose—but he couldn’t remember why it mattered. 

He could breathe just fine.

 

\---

 

They were surrounded on all sides—and he was dying, he could feel it like rot, deep within his chest—the thumping of his heart was stuttered and uneven. It was so dark he couldn’t see his own hand.

Somewhere in the distance, there was a caterwaul—so high it pierced him like a knife. His body was close to the ground, and he was crawling. 

A hand fell heavily on his shoulder, he could feel the keen grip through the fabric. He only had seconds to act. This could be it.

He snapped into action, dynamic as the crack of a whip, hands fisting themselves in the shirt of the man above him. His leg swept out, and it was only the propelled motion of the man trying not to fall, and Gilbert being a  _ fucking expert  _ that kept him from stupidly crushing himself under the man’s weight.

There was a crack, a pained, furious gasp, and Gilbert thrust himself down to the man’s throat, forearm braced against the softer flesh.

 

“Gilbert!” West choked from under him, and then the illusion collapsed.

He leapt back, burned, and stumbled over the coffee table, cursing as he tried to put as much distance between Ludwig and himself as he could.

In the dim, golden light that came in through the window, shuttered and weak, he saw Ludwig’s silhouette rise from the position Gilbert had thrown him into, one hand coming up to his throat, and the other to his head. The silence was choppy with their panting.

“No blood?” Gilbert croaked, cold and raw and regretful.

“Turn the light on—” Ludwig said and in the dim glow from the city Gilbert could see his head turn, “what the fuck was that?”

In a hot instant, the shame snapped into indignation. “What’ve I told you about touching me while I sleep? About waking me?” He stalked over to the light and threw his palm against it, pitching the both of them into sharp clarity. 

“A century ago!” Ludwig cried, face was alight with shock, disbelief and—swimming around the wideness of his eyes, fear. 

It was like this any time that Gilbert lost control—of anything. He wasn’t a nation of his own anymore, but he’d been Ludwig’s guardian for so long—of course. Of course it’d distress him to see the once-great-Gilbert-Beilschmidt undone like this. He rubbed furiously at his forehead. This was why he stayed in his room. 

“I’m sorry I punched your throat. Obviously, West, it wasn’t intended for you.”

Ludwig shook his fingers at him. “Obviously,” he repeated, “What’s been going on with you? You’ve been on edge for—god—for weeks now.”

Immediately, his heart recoiled. “Nothing’s wrong.”

A sharp, doglike laugh. His own ill humor shot back at him through his younger brother. “You just elbowed me in the fucking throat.”

“I told you not to wake me—I never assumed you thought that my advice had an  _ expiration date _ .”

“That’s not healthy—”

“Not for a—”  
“No, not for _Us_ either,” Ludwig shot back.

Gilbert could feel the rage and shame like hilt in his hand, and it took centuries of practice to force it back down, to crumble it into himself. “Watch yourself,” he warned. Ludwig gave him such a look that Gilbert could hardly believe he was dealing with anyone but a child. And, for fuck’s sake, he might as well be.

He forgot how young Ludwig still was, sometimes. He’d shot up like a poplar. “Can Francis sleep?” Gilbert demanded, and Ludwig dragged a hand over his face, pressing his fingers to the point of stress between his eyebrows. 

“I don’t know.”

“Worry about him instead then—he’d probably be flattered. He’s touched when people bother him about dumb shit like that.” The nightmare had left a coil of anxiety in his stomach and this argument, this dumb fucking conversation about  _ how he was sleeping  _ wasn’t helping. 

“Francis isn’t my brother,” Ludwig rumbled furiously. 

“Exactly! Christ, West, pick up the pace. I raised you—do you think I’m grateful for your puttering and your mother-henning and clucking? Do you think that you’re doing anyone any favors with your pitying glances and worried hums? I don’t want your pity!”

“Then maybe,” Ludwig said, voice sharp with danger, rising to his feet finally, “you shouldn’t act so pitiful.”

He was wearing boots, jacking his height up further, and with the way his features furled into that snarl of frustration and— _ God _ —annoyance, it took every memory of raising this kid to remind Gilbert of where he was, who he was talking to. His already thin lips pursed into an almost invisible line, and he turned on his heel.

He needed to cool down—getting into an argument like this with Ludwig, especially as worked up as they both were—it would be stupid. It’d be  _ dangerous _ with the way the both of them were.

“Hey—no, no running away from it this time!” Ludwig called out from behind him, there were two slams of those heavy boots against the floor, and then a heavy hand fell on his shoulder—

Gilbert whirled around, heel of the palm to Ludwig’s sternum. A hard, bodilly shove. His brother stumbled back—not stunned, just shocked. He always seemed to forget how _ quick  _ Gilbert could be.

“Don’t you  _ ever—” _ he spat, and then, a second later, “Ludwig,” the name was low and cold and tired, “You’re my brother, and I love you, but you  _ do not _ try to intimidate me into anything. I’ve taught you better than that.” They stared at each other, and Gilbert, for a second, wished that he didn’t know his brother as well as he did. 

Pain and frustration was etched into Ludwig’s familiar face—and the fear, yes, the fear was still there. 

Ultimately, he was helpless against it, and so he gave in. For all that he was a weapon, his steel bowed to his fragile, hollowed-out heart these days. “I’m going to put on my shoes,” Gilbert said quietly. “Then I’m going to put on my coat. I’m going to go outside for a walk. I was out at the bar late last night—I’m not sure it’s all out of my system. _ I’m not going to fight you.” _

His brother stared at him, almost uncomprehendingly, and then Gilbert saw the corners of Ludwig’s eyes crumple, and he felt something within himself fracture. 

He was a terrible brother.

“We’ll talk about it tomorrow,” he said, snatching his coat from their rack and his shoes from the foyer, rushing out of the house before he could even put them on.

 

\---

 

Seconds dragged into minutes which dragged into hours which— _ Gilbert had existed in a sentient form for centuries now. _ Surely a single breakfast with his brother shouldn’t feel like an infinity, and yet he found himself twitching, anxious to be over with this, to entertain a noise other than the weak flapping of the newspaper. 

_ It would be better,  _ he thought, _ to bite right into the heart of this. _

“Have you ever seen a country Die, West?”

Ludwig started, and his eyes flickered up past the edge of his newspaper, and settled on Gilbert steadily. He was wary. Good.

“Not personally, no.” His voice sounded strained.

“And you don’t remember Germania?”  
“No.”

Of course, Gilbert had witnessed a few Deaths—but only two personally.

 

Weapons didn’t make for good big brothers, sadly.

 

They sat in that for a moment, and Gilbert leaned back, crossing his arms over his middle. “You’re mad at me.”

Ludwig took the chance as soon as it was given to him. “You’re being stupid.”

“Well, it’s not _ just me  _ being stupid. You want me to go to—God—you want me to go to fucking sleep-therapy or something? Do you know how absurd that is, like, have you thought that far ahead? West, I’m not even _ human _ . How is a mortal therapist going to—”

“I know! Christ, I get it, but it’s better than nothing,” Ludwig said, already rubbing his brow

Gilbert pursed his lips into that sharp red line. “I appreciate the thought, but you can’t do anything to fix this, and, honestly? Your attempts are wearing away at my patience.”

“What do you mean?”

He sucked in a breath that felt too short. “I’m an old sword, Ludwig. We get hung up above mantlepieces—pinned to the wood. We get melted down again, into something solid, useful. We don’t just keep on keeping on—strapped to the hip of some modern businessman—you know?” He laughed sharply, and could see it crack against Ludwig’s face like a slap.

“You’re not a piece of scrap metal, Christ—” He sounded horrified, or maybe just angry, and he shook his fingers at Gilbert again, who raised his eyebrows.

“What’s  _ that  _ supposed to mean?”

Ludwig’s face fell.  _ “You don’t—” _ and Gilbert saw the crinkle in the corners of those blue eyes. He had only seconds to batten down the hatches.

“You don’t want...to die...do you?” He looked stricken, and his voice was so soft and so quiet that it was was repellant to Gilbert, who felt his steel warping again. 

“ Jesus, West—no. No,” He said too emphatically. He didn’t know. He dug within himself for an argument, unearthing wounds and fears and fearsome wants, shuffling through them like papers to put on Ludwig’s desk.

“I’ve been alive for centuries, Ludwig.” He said, “I—God—do you know what I did just to stick around? I’ve been through so many changes. This is—new.” He’d always been so terrible at these types of vulnerable conversations, and he desperately wished for it to end. “It’s new, and I won’t lie, I don’t like it. I miss my capes, and my swords—and the way things used to be, back before—” he made an all-encompassing gesture, and Ludwig winced sympathetically. Silence throttled him.

 

“But you like your blog,” Ludwig said, and it sounded so  _ pathetic  _ like that, Gilbert laughed.

“Yeah,” he said, “I like my blog. I like being able to order things online and have them delivered to me within days. I like being able to send texts.”

“I know,” Ludwig replied, tension easing from his shoulders. His laugh was low and sweet. “You decimate my phone every time you find something noteworthy. I can’t even leave it on vibrate anymore.”

“Yeah. I’m not sorry for that. You can fall to your knees and beg, but I won’t apologize.” 

His brother’s chuckle was weak, “but that’s not—it’s not _ enough _ , is it?”

 

“No,” Gilbert agreed, cautiously. “Not nearly, not on its own. There’s you, though.” It seemed to catch Ludwig off guard. “There’s the land—the people. There’s beer. There’s...the flute. This is all on me, Ludwig. You’ve got to understand, I got used to...I don’t know. Things had made sense a certain way for so long, the world was perfectly comprehensible in such a natural way that—I don’t—” He was  fumbling over the words, none of them felt right, but they weren’t quite _wrong_ either, “—know how to explain this to you so that you get it. This is just—me. This is just the way that I am.”  
“I _don’t_ get it,” Ludwig was practically pleading.

“I’m saying...this one isn’t Prussia,” Gilbert said, but Ludwig’s expression didn’t clear.

 

He sighed and let his head fall into his hands, rubbing the thin skin of his forehead in small, concentric circles with his thumbs.

“I’m not going to leave you, West,” he promised. “I just...need more time. More time, and more practice. You know what they say, the devil’s favorite furniture is the long bench—if I just get back to it, keep at it, I’m sure the cinema will show a different film.” He looked up at Ludwig, who—while not, perhaps, fully convinced—at least looked more at ease.

Thank God, it was over, he was desperate for some levity. 

 

“And if you ever want to wake me up again—” Gilbert said, slipping into a false, jokey brother of The Commander voice, “You’re going to have to do a hell of a lot better than that—I could’ve asphyxiated you.”

Ludwig threw up his hands.

“You think I’m kidding!” Gilbert laughed, “But I swear to God, I expected better from you! How low is your guard? What else have you let go?”

“If you suggest we start sparring again,” Ludwig began, but Gilbert cut him off.

_ “A fantastic idea, _ thank you.”

**Author's Note:**

> He's gonna be alright.


End file.
